


Full Circle

by wondrawall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M, idk what to tag this, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform, uni - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondrawall/pseuds/wondrawall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nervous hands and chewed on pens is what filled their lives. Nothing was an emotion and heartbeats seemed like a myth. So now, they walk in sync, hearts beating the same content rhythm.</p><p> </p><p>(or the one where Harry is a bit pretentious with habits that kill, and Louis scribbles his way through life, but fate works in mysterious ways.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Randomly got this idea at 10 at night and I'm quite proud. Also this is what happens when I procrastinate school work.

All he could ever want was a love in return and his mind felt to old for his age.

 

All he could do was think about roaming the streets, and stumbling upon beautiful things and thriving on the discovery of the next wonder in that city, but he was trapped in his own conscience, too tied down to leave.

 

Life was filled with petty material things and he knew that, god how he knew that, yet he still found himself wishing for the pettiest thing of them all.

 

Redamancy.

 

It was sick and horrifying, and love was such a trivial thing that he didn’t understand why he became so deeply obsessed with it.

 

He searched for love in the smallest of things, over analyzing every gesture, inhaling too much, his heart twisting at any sudden movement.

 

He craved it so badly, with his whole mind and soul that it made him wonder, _why?_

 

Movies, and television, and books, were filled endlessly with the tales of perfect love and beautiful stories were woven and etched on pages, retelling what wasn’t his and showcasing a love that was everlasting and _fake._

He had little to no experience with love, yet he had so much insight to almosts.

 

Almosts were what filled his pages. Almosts were what devoured his insides as he tried to sleep at night and it was these almosts that filled his days with false hope of beauty that relied heavily on caffeine to give him the life he was destined to live.

 

 

Love was a material thing, no longer an emotion, and he had his head, and his figurative heart set on that notion.

 

But cravings were hard to ignore.

 

He bounced his knee as he pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket, hands shaking as he placed it between his lips.

 

The air was frigid and his coat did nothing but let the cool air circulate beneath him, seeping deep into his skin as he dug around for his lighter.

 

After lighting it and inhaling a deep breath of emptiness, he decided against the bus and stood up from the icy bench, walking in long strides towards town.

 

He missed the city, missed being able to get lost, missed not being afraid to get lost.

 

But now he was surrounded by all things familiar and his heart did every thing but beat at that thought.

 

The streets were busy, despite the fact it was a Tuesday afternoon, and it made his gut twist as people hustled through shops, eagerly searching for gifts, as if that would prove their love.

 

If they even had any to begin with, he muses.

 

December was pitiful, and while the weather was his favorite and the lights were lovely, the pretentious message it sent was unnecessary, if he was being honest.

 

So he continued to weave his way through the crowds, taking in his surroundings, inhaling grey, and puffing out black.

 

He strolled past the frantic buyers, to the less busy part of town, and plopped himself down at a table between two shops. The chair was metal and he felt as if his insides were freezing, but it was nice to feel numb in other ways.

 

He flicked some ashes away when he heard a cough from next to him.

 

He looked up and was greeted with the sight of a light eyed boy with heavy bags beneath them, ruffled hair that seemed dull and lips bitten raw.

 

“Do you mind if I sit? I’ve been looking for a quiet place to read for ages and I just- may I?” The boy asked, chewing on his bottom lip and picking at his thumb.

 

He nodded.

 

The boy gave him a smile albeit a weak him, but nonetheless he accepted the gesture.

 

The two sat in silence before the boy spoke up once more.

 

“M’Louis by the way, just thought I should mention,” he said, pulling out a book from his bag.

 

“Harry.”

 

Louis nodded, opening his book and pulling out a pen.

 

Harry watched him, watched his blue eyes scan the pages, frantically, and scribbling on page after page in a scrawl that Harry wondered if even Louis could decipher if he read over it again.

 

Love is a material thing, but Harry failed philosophy last semester.

 

It’s a thing that goes on for two weeks, before Louis’ dark circles begin to lighten and Harry doesn’t depend on smoke and caffeine as much, however a pack is always securely in his pocket.

 

“What do you write about?” Harry asked, leaning his elbows on the table.

 

Louis shrugged, “If I knew, I wouldn’t do it.”

 

The table becomes a second home and the two become each others’ first.

 

“You’re hair has gotten longer,” Louis comments one day, before scribbling in the same book he has been since day one.

 

Harry shrugs, “Yeah, hair does tend to do that.”

 

Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Really, I had no idea.”

 

Harry’s lips tug up into a small smile, an alien feeling washing over him, “You learn something new everyday.”

 

Louis sets down his pen and looks up, their eyes meeting, “You definitely do H.”

 

On a Thursday of the third week this tradition had begun, Louis suggests they go try the tea shop down the road as he hadn’t had any this morning and sitting outside in the middle of winter wasn’t looking to be the smartest thing these two have done.

 

So they set off, walking in a comfortable silence, Harry matching Louis’ steps after realizing his strides were too large, and his heart beat at that conclusion.

 

Louis orders for them and they sit in the back booth of the small shop. There are only a few other people and while it wasn’t deathly silent like Harry was used to, it was warm and Louis was inviting.

 

“I feel like I don’t know you, but I do at the same time,” Louis suddenly says as Harry is busy taking in the teashop.

 

He hums in agreement.

 

“Do you go to uni?” Louis asks, taking a sip of his tea.

 

Harry shrugs, “To an extent. I’ve changed my major three times and it doesn’t really seem to have a point really.”

 

“What’s your major right now?” Louis quirks and eyebrow and rests his head on his hand.

“I was working on philosophy, since anything really goes with that subject, but according to my professor I’m wrong,” Harry furrows his brows and stirs his tea.

 

“Wrong?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That seems wrong in itself, doesn’t it?”

 

Harry cracks a smile, “I guess it does.” He pauses, “Do you go to uni?”

 

Louis scratches the back of his neck and swipes his tongue over his lips, “I did, for awhile, it’s complicated.”

 

“It’s only complicated if you make it complicated.”

 

He scoffs, “You really were a philosophy major weren’t you?”

 

The conversation flows and feels easy and they both drink three cups of tea before they realize the shop needs to close, and snow has settled over street.

 

They walk close together, bundled in layers, hands buried deep in their pockets when Louis asks, “Do you live near here?”

 

Harry doesn’t answer him per se, but continues to walk.

 

After another ten minutes, they reach Harry’s front door. He fumbles with the keys, hands shaking (cravings are hard to ignore), before finally pushing open the door and leading them inside.

 

He toes off his shoes and watches Louis copy his motion. He flicks on the lights, and leaves his layers behind him.

 

The flat is plain, no pictures on the walls, there are piles of knick knacks, books, CDs, and various other items stacked all over the place.

 

The kitchen is clean, there are clothes on the couch, and the TV has a layer of dust over it.

 

Louis feels at home once more.

 

Louis takes off his jacket and settles into the couch, Harry following close behind and it doesn’t hit him until now that his heart is beating erratically.

 

His insides don’t hurt, his mind hadn’t twisted in a while, and when Louis leans his head on his shoulder and places his hand over Harry’s, they stop shaking, and instead grip tightly onto Louis’.

 

“I noticed you stopped smoking, you don’t smell like them anymore, “Louis comments, “You stopped bringing coffee mugs with you as well.”

 

Harry leans his head on top of Louis’, “You’re eyes look brighter.”

 

“This should be weird, shouldn’t it?”

 

“What should?” Harry shifts, to face Louis; there hands never letting go.

 

“Whatever this is, I don’t know.” Louis looks down at their hands, his thumb swiping over the back of Harry’s.

 

“Nothing should be anything Lou, it’s us.”

 

Philosophy never would get anyone anywhere, but Louis smiles regardless of the cheesy sentiment.

 

Day by day, Louis spends more of his time in Harry’s flat, bringing extra clothes over, his own coffee mugs, and own copies of DVDs that they watch endlessly.

 

Harry’s cheeks get rosier, Louis’ smiles wider, and to say they were attached at the hip would be an understatement.

 

One morning, Louis wakes to a cold bed, something that used to be routine now felt foreign. He blinks, sleep still filling his mind and body and looks around the room, searching for traces of Harry.

 

He hears some clinking and other noises coming from outside, so he wraps a blanket around him and trudges out to see what in the world his boy could be doing at this ungodly hour. (It was only nine o’clock but Louis refuses to be up before noon.)

 

He hears Harry humming; something that has grown more normal and it always makes Louis smile when he hears Harry sing.

 

Once he reaches the kitchen, something that has definitely gotten more cluttered over the months Louis had been staying, he sees Harry stirring some tea, eggs and toast set on plates beside them.

 

Louis crosses the room to go lean against Harry’s broad back, one of Louis’ favorite parts about him. (If he was being honest Harry was his favorite in general, but they both understood that already.)

 

“Morning, love,” Harry says softly, turning to face Louis, arms wrapping around him instinctively.

 

Louis rubs his face against Harry’s chest, savoring the warmth that radiated off his body. Harry always use to complain of being cold despite the fact he was a human space heater, and it hadn’t clicked until now that Harry rarely complained of that feeling anymore.

 

(Louis’ heart skipped.)

 

“You made breakfast?” Louis lifts his head, eyeing the tea.

 

Harry grins, dimples on display.

 

(Louis remembers the first day he saw those dimples, exactly two weeks ago. His heart had stopped and he couldn’t help himself but poke them, making Harry flush and swat his hand away.

 

“I didn’t know you had dimples.”

 

Harry rubs his cheek, “Yeah, only really show when I’m with you, I guess.”)

 

“Thought it was time we had proper breakfast instead of lunch everyday since _someone_ doesn’t like to get out of bed,” Harry flicks Louis’ nose, causing him to scrunch it up.

 

“Oi, none of that. Not my fault I like my beauty rest,” Louis pulls himself out of Harry’s arms, and grabs his mug and plate.

 

“You look beautiful regardless.”

 

Harry always made little comments like this, without a second thought. Louis had always sort of been self-depreciating, it was just how he was, and Harry would always tell him otherwise in a heartbeat.

 

They fit and worked and they both could feel again, something both of them had dreamed of since day one.

 

Louis had run away from home at seventeen. His household wasn’t great, slowly but surely falling apart, and he didn’t want to be there to see it. He set off on his own, meeting nice people along the way, until he just didn’t want to anymore.

 

He moved in with his best mate, Zayn, who was going to uni in Manchester. Louis sometimes would go to classes with Zayn and it wasn’t like anyone noticed, in fact everyone just thought he went there. (It was complicated.)

 

Louis had always loved English and literature, and maybe that was the reason him and Zayn got on so well. Sometimes, when Louis had been in the flat all day, too down to get up and go to class with him, Zayn would come home with new books and they would sit and read together.

 

Until Zayn got an internship.

 

Until he had move to New York.

 

Until he told Louis that he ‘needs to live’.

 

So Louis stayed in what was once _their_ flat, taking in the emptiness when all of Zayn’s things were gone, sans the books.

 

Louis hadn’t realized how much he had depended on another person until the flat echoed when he called out to Zayn, only to remember he wouldn’t get a response anymore.

 

It had been a month of Zayn’s absence when Louis finally got the courage to look through the books he had left behind.

 

As he flipped through the pages, he would find little notes on the sides, asking questions, make snide comments about the characters, or just circling words that Louis couldn’t understand.

 

That was when the obsession began. He started to read each and every book, reading all of the comments that were made, crossing them out, and making his own.

 

Since spending every day with Harry, he hadn’t picked up a book or a pen in at least a months time.

 

His head felt lighter and his fingers didn’t ache.

 

The two of them go into the bedroom, hopping on the bed and pulling the blanket over their laps, settling in to eat a quiet breakfast, knees knocking together.

 

“You know, you could erm, like, officially move in, if you wanted to,” Harry says, setting down his mug.

 

Louis raises and eyebrow, “I thought I already had?”

 

***********

Their fingers are intertwined and they’re giggling to each other, eyes bright and lips red, cheeks aching with how much they keep smiling.

 

“You’re such a twat! I could’ve died, and it would’ve been your fault _Harold_ ,” Louis laughs nudging Harry with his shoulder.

 

Harry had pretended to push him into a pond that they had walked by, startling a group of birds and old women sitting on the benches.

 

Harry releases Louis’ hand and instead wraps his arm over the smaller boy’s shoulders, “Never would let that happen, my love,” he punctuates his sentiment with a kiss to the side of Louis’ head.

 

It had been about year since they first met, and happiness was a genuine emotion.

 

Louis had shoved his books in a box, put deep into the corners of a closet they never use. Harry had thrown out all of his cigarettes and replaced coffee with juice.

 

Harry’s habit had seemed like such a part of him that he hadn’t even realized that he had completely stopped until one morning he saw a full carton of cigarettes, and his hands didn’t shake at the thought.

 

The habit had started so long ago that it barely feels like a memory anymore. His parents had been fighting again, and he had found his father’s stash a while ago, always too scared to try it since he had only been sixteen at the time, (five years fly by) but once he had placed it between his lips and inhaled, his body stopped twitching.

 

The habit only got worse when he moved out at eighteen, his father scratched out of the picture, and his mother might as well have been scratched out too.

 

He still shook every now and then, but instead of reaching for his lighter, he reached for his boy, whose lips fit his better than any cigarette could.

 

So now, they walk in sync, hearts beating the same content rhythm.

 

Every morning, (Harry has trained Louis to wake up before noon thanks to tricks that are a bit x-rated.) the two stroll through town, looking in shops, at dumb things that remind them of each other.

 

They continue walking and laughing, until they reach the table that started it all. They sit and talk, making up stories about people who walk by.

 

Their hands are interlaced on top of the table, and their eyes rarely leave each other’s.

 

Asked a year ago, Harry would tell you perfection was a myth and happiness was overrated, something used by those to feel better about their selves.

 

Now, those were the two words he would use to describe his life.

 

“I love you,” Harry says.

 

Louis smiles, “The feeling is very mutual, gorgeous.”

 

Growing and expanding seems impossible.

 

But learning is a gift, and love is a prize, won by those with the strongest of hearts. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are welcomed and you can find me on tumblr @wondrawall


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